940.373 

B285P 


BULLETIN  NO.  11 


SEPTEMBER  1,  1916 


A ppramtal  Hctti'r 
Id  Hip  JCatapr 


From 

Bruce  Barton 


Reprinted  from  Every  Week, 
Issue  of  August  7,  1916 


Copies  of  this  and  other  Bulletins  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  American 
Rights  League,  N.  Y.  Branch,  45  Cedar  Street,  New  York  City 


A Personal  Letter  to  the  Kaiser 


My  Dear  Wilhelm: — This  is  the  second  anniversary  of  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war,  and  we  are  both  of  us  hoping  that  the  end  will  come 
before  another  anniversary.  So  I think  I ought  to  write  and  tell  you 
something  of  what  has  been  going  on  in  America. 

Of  course  I know  that  you  have  been  hearing  regularly  from  Am- 
bassador von  Bernstorff;  but  Mr.  von  Bernstorff  is  in  a difficult  place 
to  secure  any  real  information.  He  is  in  Washington,  completely 
surrounded  by  politicians;  he  never  meets  us  common  Americans.  It 
is  easy  in  Washington  to  get  the  idea  that  the  American  people  are 
very  much  interested  in  politics  and  politicians,  whereas  the  truth  is 
that  we  care  almost  nothing  about  politics  and  absolutely  nothing 
about  politicians.  We  love  our  wives  and  are  interested  in  our  busi- 
ness, and  want  to  raise  our  sons  to  be  a little  better  men  than  we  are; 
and  while  we  aren’t  too  proud  to  fight,  as  your  English  cousin  George 
can  tell  you  if  you  ask  him  to  look  up  his  records,  we  do  think  that  a 
lot  of  fighting  can  be  avoided  if  one  doesn’t  take  politicians  like  yours 
and  our  own  too  seriously. 

You  and  I were  pretty  good  friends,  Wilhelm,  before  the  war. 
Of  course  I used  to  laugh  a bit  at  you,  on  the  quiet.  But  it  was  the 
friendly  sort  of  laughter  that  I have  for  Teddy.  You  and  he — painting 
pictures,  writing  books,  pretending  to  know  more  about  everything 
than  anybody  else  knows  about  anything — you’re  a good  deal  alike, 
you  know;  I laughed  at  you,  but  I liked  you  just  the  same.  In  spite 
of  all  your  peacock  struttiness,  you  have  created  and  inspired  the 
most  marvelously  efficient  nation  that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  You 
have  abolished  poverty;  you  have  so  arranged  your  social  system  as  to 
take  care  of  a very  large  population  in  a very  small  country;  you  have 
made  it  possible  for  every  man  to  be  sure  of  a job,  and  of  a com- 
fortable instead  of  a dreadful  old  age.  You  have  eliminated  loafers 
and  made  life  a happy  experience  for  your  people.  No  other  ruler 
has  ever  done  so  much,  and  my  hat  was  off  to  you  for  it. 

I was  forever  writing  editorials  to  point  out  how  much  better  you 
run  your  schools  and  your  cities  and  your  business  life  than  we  do. 

Now,  as  we  get  toward  the  end  of  the  war,  the  question  is,  How 
can  you  and  I become  friends  again?  For  the  war  has  strained  our 
friendship  a good  deal,  Wilhelm;  I wouldn’t  be  frank  with  you  if  I« 
tried  to  pretend  otherwise. 

I’m  not  going  to  discuss  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  my  advice 
to  you  is  not  to  discuss  it,  either.  Most  of  the  fellows  over  on  this 
side  blame  you  for  it,  and  nothing  that  you  can  ever  say  will  change 
their  opinions.  They  say  that  the  ultimatum  which  Austria  sent  to 
Serbia  was  a brutal  document;  that  it  was  meant  to  be  so  worded  that 


2 


f yo . 3 7 3 


Serbia  couldn’t  possibly  accept  it;  it  was  meant  to  start  trouble.  They 
still  believe  and  always  will  believe  that  you  could  have  held  Austria 
off  if  you  had  wanted  to;  they  think  that  if  you  had  known  that  Eng- 
land was  going  to  enter  the  war  you  would  have  held  her  off.  And 
so  they  blame  you,  Wilhelm;  you  got  off  on  the  wrong  foot  with 
them  at  the  start. 

I partly  agree  with  them,  but  I go  back  a little  farther  than  they 
do.  I realize  the  position  you  were  in.  There  you  were  with  a popula- 
tion that  was  outgrowing  your  country.  Bismarck  never  believed  in 
colonies,  and  shut  you  off  from  getting  any  good  ones  when  the  good 
ones  were  being  given  out.  And  when  you  did  get  around  to  it,  all 
that  was  left  was  a few  swamps  in  Africa — everywhere  else  you  looked 
in  the  East  you  found  England  quietly  intrenched;  and  over  here,  be- 
hind the  Monroe  Doctrine,  were  we.  You’ve  had  diplomatic  setbacks 
right  along  ever  since  the  Congress  of  Berlin.  Two  or  three  times 
you’ve  “rattled  your  shining  sword,”  but  each  time  the  Powers  have 
stepped  in  and  made  you  back  down.  It  just  looked  to  you  as  if  the 
only  way  you  could  get  a “place  in  the  sun”  was  to  fight  for  it.  And 
you  thought  that  1914  was  the  time.  You  were  ready;  and  every  year 
France  and  Russia  were  getting  readier;  every  day  that  passed  made 
you  comparatively  weaker;  1914  was  your  year. 

But  that  is  past  and  gone.  I’m  not  going  to  spend  the  rest  of  my 
life  hating  you  because  you  started  the  war.  And  the  best  thing  you 
and  I can  do  is  not  to  discuss  it. 

I’m  going  to  pass  over  all  this  stuff  about  Kultur , too.  Some  of 
our  fellows  over  here  have  taken  that  very  seriously,  but  I haven’t. 
When  your  professors  and  preachers  and  you  yourself  talk  about  Ger- 
many’s Kultur,  about  her  divine  mission  to  spread  her  superior  brand 
of  civilization  over  the  world,  I just  laugh.  Because  I have  heard 
a hundred  freshly  picked  college  graduates  talk  just  exactly  like  that. 
Every  boy  who  comes  out  of  college,  if  he  amounts  to  anything,  has  a 
deep-seated  conviction  that  the  world  is  pretty  much  wrong  and 
that  he  is  peculiarly  set  apart  to  put  it  right.  It’s  because  Germany 
is  just  a college  graduate  among  the  nations  that  she  talks  like  that — 
just  a vigorous,  lusty  youngster  who  has  studied  a little  too  hard  and 
not  played  football  quite  enough.  When  Germany  is  older,  she  will 
understand  that  every  nation  feels  itself  divinely  ordained  to  perform 
a mission  in  the  world;  she  will  know  that  the  highest  Kultur  belongs 
to  that  nation  which  boasts  the  broadest  tolerance.  There  never  was 
a nation  so  insignificant  or  so  debased  that  its  people,  deep  down  in 
their  hearts,  didn’t  believe  they  were  a bit  better  than  any  other  peo- 
ple in  the  world.  The  most  civilized  nation  is  that  one  which,  without 
forfeiting  its  own  self-esteem,  is  quite  happy  to  allow  every  other  na- 
tion the  same  comforting  illusion. 

When  I was  a boy  ten  years  old,  Wilhelm,  each  of  the  families 


3 


that  lived  beside  us  had  one  of  your  fellow  countrymen  as  a coach- 
man. They  were  Prussians;  they  had  decided  they  would  rather  be 
coachmen  in  a country  where  they  could  walk  on  the  grass  if  they 
felt  like  it  than  to  dwell  in  a land  where  too  many  things  were  verboten. 
And,  generally  speaking,  they  were  pretty  useful  citizens.  I remember 
once,  though,  that  we  got  into  a snow-ball  fight — the  two  men  against 
the  ten-year-old  boy.  And  I remember  how  they  chased  me  across 
an  open  lot,  throwing  hard,  icy  snow-balls;  and  how  I fell  down  and 
cut  myself  on  the  crust,  and  cried;  and  how  they  stood  one  on  either 
side  of  me  and  continued  to  throw,  after  I was  flat  in  the  snow,  and 
how  they  laughed  when  they  saw  me  cry. 

It’s  funny,  Wilhelm,  but  I had  forgotten  all  about  that  boyhood 
incident  until  the  day  when  the  Lusitania  sank;  and  then  suddenly,  all 
in  an  instant,  it  flashed  over  me  again.  We’ve  read  very  attentively 
everything  that  has  been  sent  out  from  your  side  about  the  Lusitania, 
and  I think  we’re  broad  enough  to  give  you  credit  if  any  was  coming 
to  you.  You  claimed  the  Lusitania  was  armed,  which  you  knew  was 
not  true.  She  did  carry  munitions,  but  she  also  carried  women  and 
children,  and  you  knew  that  also.  The  submarine  commander  was 
under  orders;  he  had  no  discretion;  it  was  not  his  to  ask,  but  to  act. 

And  yet,  Wilhelm,  this  is  the  simple  truth:  If  that  commander 
had  been  an  American  instead  of  a Prussian,  he  might  have  fired  his 
torpedo,  but  he  would  have  managed  somehow  to  miss;  and  he  would 
have  come  back  to  port  and  taken  his  punishment  like  a gentleman. 
You  may  not  believe  it;  you  may  not  understand;  but  it’s  true.  No 
American  would  have  sunk  a boat  full  of  women  and  children;  no 
American  theater  audience  would  have  cheered  at  jokes  about  it;  no 
American  school  children  would  have  been  given  a holiday  to  cele- 
brate such  a sinking.  We  just  aren’t  built  that  way,  Wilhelm,  and  if 
you  and  I are  going  to  be  friends  again,  you’ve  got  to  make  an  effort 
to  understand  that. 

There  have  been  atrocities  enough  on  both  sides  in  this  war,  God 
knows,  and  we,  over  here,  are  no  Recording  Angels,  to  sit  in  judgment 
upon  either  you  or  England.  We  have  read  everything  that  you  have 
published  about  England’s  atrocities;  and  we  would  like  to  believe 
that  everything  England  has  published  about  you  is  untrue.  But,  un- 
fortunately, Wilhelm,  we  have  the  bitter  testimony  of  too  many 
Americans  who  have  been  serving  the  wounded  in  France.  Only  a 
few  days  ago  an  American  author  whose  accuracy  I have  had  occasion 
to  test  many  times,  sat  and  talked  with  me  in  my  office.  He  has  been 
working  as  a stretcher-bearer  in  France,  and  he  said: 

“We  don’t  wear  the  Geneva  cross  any  more.  It  makes  too  good 
a mark  for  the  German  sharpshooters.” 

Then  he  told  me  how  he  saw  a German  aeroplane  circle  over  a 
French  hospital  tent,  glaringly  marked  on  the  top  with  red  crosses, 


4 


and  how  the  aeroplane  descended  within  a few  hundred  feet  and 
dropped  a bomb  into  the  center  of  it,  scattering  its  helpless  occupants 
to  the  four  winds. 

When  a man  whom  I know  as  well  as  I know  Dr.  Grenfell  of 
Labrador  comes  back  from  his  hospital  in  France  and  makes  state- 
ments like  these  in  the  Outlook,  we  simply  have  to  listen: 

One  of  our  doctors  who  was  taken  prisoner  in  the  retreat  from 
Mons  was  allowed  to  come  back  after  ten  months’  imprisonment. 
Among  other  tales  of  horror  he  told  us,  I remember  his  saying  that 
for  inadvertently  neglecting  to  salute  a non-commissioned  officer,  the 
officer  was  ordered  to  come  up  and  strike  the  doctor.  The  officer  hit 
him  under  the  jaw,  knocking  him  right  down.  The  doctor  told  us 
that  a private  had  been  bayoneted  for  resisting  such  brutality,  and  that 
he  himself  offered  no  resistance. 

An  old  fisherman  friend,  lying  wounded  at  Yarmouth,  told  me  that 
after  a submarine  had  sunk  his  sailing  boat  and  turned  the  four  men 
adrift  at  sea,'  the  Germans  fired  a few  shots  at  them  as  they  rowed 
away.  He  was  hit  through  the  thigh — an  unarmed  fisherman. 

A little  boy  of  twelve,  in  a school  kept  by  an  American  lady  near 
Brussels,  cried  out  “Vive  la  France”  to  some  passing  soldiers  he  took 
to  be  French.  They  halted  and  shot  him  at  once. 

“Are  the  Germans  cruel?”  Dr.  Grenfell  was  asked,  and  he  answers: 
“Systematically  so.  It  is  part  of  ‘frightfulness.’  ” 

Perhaps  our  reports  of  your  “frightfulness”  policy  have  been  col- 
ored by  the  awful  tension  of  men’s  minds;  we  hope  so,  Wilhelm.  But 
we  can’t  forget  that  after  the  Boxer  outrages  you  ordered  your 
soldiers  so  to  conduct  themselves  that  no  Chinese  would  ever  dare 
to  look  a German  in  the  face  again.  Our  own  soldiers  remember  how 
yours  acted  in  that  day;  and — I remember  my  Prussian  coachmen. 

Putting  it  as  kindly  as  I can,  it  still  seems  to  me  that  in  your  pas- 
sion for  efficiency  you  have  developed  in  the  Prussian  character  a 
certain  ruthlessness  that  gives  scant  regard  to  the  rights  of  the  weak 
in  the  world.  And,  Wilhelm,  it’s  going  to  be  hard  for  you  and  me  to 
become  really  good  friends  again  until  you  change  that  in  the  char- 
acter of  your  people — until  I can  feel  that  in  my  business  with  them 
I am  going  to  have  a square  deal,  regardless  of  my  physical  power  to 
enforce  it. 

Of  course  all  the  governments  have  lied  a good  deal  to  their  peo- 
ple during  the  war.  It  will  be  a pretty  good  plan  if  you  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  kings  and  czars  can  work  away  from  that  habit  after  the 
war,  because  your  people  are  coming  back  from  the  trenches  with  a 
good  deal  more  of  the  “show  me”  spirit  than  they  had  before.  You 
will  remember,  for  instance,  that  when  the  war  broke  out  you  raised 
a shout  that  what  you  were  really  fighting  for  was  to  save  civilization 
from  the  devastation  of  the  Russian  hordes.  It  was  Russia  that  had 
started  the  war — and  your  people  believed  it. 


5 


Then,  when  you  were  checked  at  the  Marne,  it  was  perfidious  Eng- 
land who  had  leagued  the  nations  against  you.  To  crush  England — 
that  was  the  real  reason  for  the  war.  And  your  people  believed  it. 

Now  it’s  for  the  freedom  of  the  seas  that  you  must  take  Verdun 
— and  your  people  apparently  still  believe. 

But  in  dealing  with  me,  Wilhelm,  after  the  war,  if  you’ll  lay  the 
cards  face  up  on  the  table  right  from  the  start,  we’ll  get  on  a good 
deal  faster. 

Business,  Wilhelm,  is  nothing  but  credit.  That’s  old  stuff,  of 
course,  but  true.  Money  is  only  scraps  of  paper;  all  I’ve  got  to  show 
for  my  life  savings  are  a few  scraps  of  paper  printed  in  green  ink  and 
red.  When  you  were  fighting  France  in  1870,  and  had  her  army 
penned  up  against  the  Belgian  frontier,  she  surrendered  rather  than 
regard  her  treaties  as  mere  matters  of  convenience.  That  little  re- 
mark about  “scraps  of  paper”  and  the  careless  way  in  which  your 
press  bureau  handles  facts  (that  funny  note,  for  instance,  about  the 
ship  you  sunk  being  some  other  ship  than  the  Sussex — you  remember, 
the  note  with  the  foolish  little  drawing),  things  like  that  made  me 
wonder  whether  you  are  fundamentally  a truthful  citizen,  or  whether 
you  are  only  truthful  in  so  far  as  it  suits  your  convenience.  I just 
can’t  help  it,  Wilhelm. 

There  are  a half  dozen  little  things,  Wilhelm,  that  have  sort  of 
estranged  me  from  you;  but  I’m  going  to  pass  them  over,  because  I 
want  to  get  the  big  things  set  right  first  of  all.  And  the  other  big 
thing  that  sticks  in  my  crop  is  this:  I can’t  understand  at  all  why  a 
nation  which  professes  to  want  peace  as  much  as  you  do  should  have 
to  fill  the  houses  of  its  friends  so  full  of  spies.  When  your  troops 
marched  into  Belgium,  the  well-to-do  Belgian  women  looked  out  of 
their  windows  and  saw  in  the  front  ranks,  leading  the  way,  the  very 
men  whom  they  had  entertained  as  guests.  They  had  used  the  sacred 
cloak  of  a guest’s  privilege  to  ferret  out  and  report  to  you  all  the 
household  secrets  of  poor  little  Belgium. 

How  far  does  this  system  extend  in  the  world,  Wilhelm?  I don’t 
know;  and  the  very  fact  that  I don’t  know  makes  me  afraid.  Our 
factories  have  been  blown  up  and  our  ships  sunk,  our  bridges  and  rail- 
roads menaced.  Of  course,  you  have  explained  through  von  Bern- 
storff  that  this  was  done  by  fanatics  and  not  at  all  by  your  orders. 
Yet  why  did  the  explosions  cease  all  at  once  after  we  had  finally 
given  von  Bernstorff  notice  that  our  patience  was  exhausted  and  that 
we  were  on  the  point  of  sending  him  home?  If  nobody  ordered  them 
to  start,  who  ordered  them  all  of  a sudden  to  cease? 

If  you  really  wanted  our  friendship,  Wilhelm,  was  it  tactful  to  blow 
us  up?  And  if  you  really  want  us  to  take  you  at  face  value  hereafter, 
won’t  you  have  to  begin  right  away  to  throw  this  spy  system  out? 
It  puts  the  poison  of  suspicion  in  my  heart,  Wilhelm.  How  can  I 


6 


know  who  is  a spy  and  who  isn’t.  It  makes  me  wonder  every  time  a 
man  named  Schwartz  or  Hinderburg  calls  on  me  whether  he  is  going 
to  lift  some  private  papers  off  my  desk  when  he  goes  out.  And  when 
my  friend  Hensel  comes  over  to  have  dinner  at  the  house — though 
I’ve  known  him  for  years — I just  can’t  help  wondering,  when  he  ad- 
mires my  new  rug,  whether  he’s  thinking  how  nice  it  will  look  in  his 
house  when  his  friends  in  uniform  arrive. 

It  may  be  a foolish  way  to  feel,  Wilhelm,  but  I can’t  help  it.  I’ve 
got  some  dandy  German  friends  over  here.  I love  them!  I want  to 
keep  on  loving  them.  Don’t  you  see  what  a terrible  injustice  you  are 
doing  them,  when  you  make  me  wonder  all  the  time  whether  they 
are,  in  fact,  all  that  they  seem  to  be,  whether  they  are  really  and 
truly  my  friends,  or  only  pretending  to  be  my  friends  because  it  will 
boost  your  game?  For  the  sake  of  our  future  business  relations  you 
simply  must  let  me  know  where  you  stand  on  this  spy  question.  Life 
is  too  short  to  do  business  if  one  must  keep  one  hand  on  a revolver 
and  be  looking  into  a mirror  all  the  time. 

It  isn’t  I alone  who  feel  this  way.  All  over  the  world  people  are 
feeling  nervous  because  of  the  wonderful  efficiency  of  your  system  of 
spies.  Only  last  night  I was  reading  about  the  fight  in  Holland’s 
Parliament  over  the  admission  of  twenty-six  Germans  to  citizenship. 
Holland  has  always  been  proud  of  her  hospitality;  she  has  opened  the 
doors  of  her  citizenship  freely.  But  these  twenty-six  applicants  were 
your  countrymen. 

“We  have  a right  to  know  the  real  motives  of  these  men  for  re- 
questing a change  of  nationality,”  said  Mr.  Van  Doom,  the  leader  of 
the  opposition. 

Was  it  because  they  really  wanted  to  become  citizens  of  Hol- 
land, or  was  it  a part  of  a well  worked  out  plan  of  “peaceful  penetra- 
tion”? Holland  wouldn’t  have  asked  that  question  before  the  war; 
she  took  your  countrymen  at  their  face  value.  It  is  the  revelations 
of  your  spy  system  that  have  changed  her  attitude  from  frankness  to 
suspicion.  Don’t  you  see  what  an  injustice  such  a system  does  to 
Germans  in  every  corner  of  the  world?  Can’t  you  understand  how 
it  is  going  to  make  it  hard  for  them  to  do  business  anywhere?  Don’t 
you  owe  it  to  them,  Wilhelm,  to  put  all  your  efficiency  at  work  now  in 
cleansing  that  suspicion  from  the  thought  and  memory  of  the  world? 

I know  that  I shouldn’t  call  you  Wilhelm;  the  proper  formula,  of 
course,  is  Your  Majesty  or  something  like  that.  But  I’ve  called  you 
Wilhelm  deliberately,  for  your  own  good.  I want  to  get  you  used  to 
it.  For  when  your  men  get  back  from  the  trenches,  Wilhelm,  and 
see  you  all  nice  and  warm  and  cozy  in  Potsdam,  you’re  going  to  notice 
something  in  their  attitude  that  wasn’t  there  in  1913.  They’re  going 
to  be  a little  restless  and  shuffle  their  feet  a bit  when  you  tell  them 
how  God  has  called  you  to  rule  over  them;  and  they  are  going  to 


7 


want  to  know  whether  God  didn’t  call  them  also  for  something  better 
than  merely  dumbly  doing  what  they  are  told. 

It’s  coming,  Wilhelm;  I’m  trying  to  get  you  prepared  for  it  by 
easy  stages.  I call  you  Wilhelm.  But  some  private  soldier  is  like  as 
not  to  walk  up  to  you  and  slap  you  on  the  back  and  call  you  Bill. 

I’ve  tried  to  keep  hate  out  of  my  heart  in  this  war.  I don’t  hate 
you;  but  we  aren’t  the  friends  we  once  were.  I — speaking  for  myself 
and  my  crowd  of  about  a hundred  million — used  to  buy  a lot  of  goods 
made  in  Germany,  and  I can  buy  a lot  more.  I want  to  be  friends.  I 
don’t  want  to  hand  down  to  my  son  a distrust  or  bitterness  against  any 
nation  in  the  world.  But,  Wilhelm,  right  now,  before  the  war  is  over, 
I think  you  ought  to  begin  making  up  with  me.  If  we’re  going  to  do 
business  together  as  we  used  to,  I’ve  got  to  know  that  you’re  telling 
me  the  truth;  I’ve  got  to  know  that  you  are  going  to  be  just  to  me  in 
accordance  with  deserts,  not  merely  in  proportion  to  my  weakness; 
I must  know  that  while  you  are  calling  on  me  in  my  parlor  your  friends 
aren’t  around  at  the  back  door  corrupting  my  cook. 

I don’t  suppose  Mr.  von  Bernstorff  has  ever  told  you  about  me  at 
all.  But  there  are  a great  many  million  of  me,  and  the  subjects  that 
you  and  von  Bernstorff  correspond  about — politics,  internal  or  foreign 
— really  don’t  amount  to  a hill  of  beans  with  me.  What  I’m  interested 
in  is,  How  are  you  and  I,  Wilhelm,  going  to  be  friends  again? 


